


The Hourglass

by bookingit



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: 1830s Rome, Angst, Billy's not a traitor, Bromance, Carnevale, F/M, Fluff, French Resistance, Judaism, Open for prompts, Pompeii, Romance, Wingman Curtis, World War II, but he is a ladykiller, not quite a time travel fic, sort of a soulmate au?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-11-05 18:31:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17924087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookingit/pseuds/bookingit
Summary: Their paths intersect, time and again.  But never in the same place. And never for more than a moment in a single lifetime.





	1. Pompeii, AD 79

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, guys. I'm trying something I never thought I would. Let this be a soothing balm to the bitter wound of cancellation. Enjoy!

The year is 79 AD, and ash falls from the sky like snow. Little stones soon do as well, and Carina stands in the middle of the street, dumbstruck.  The earth has trembled for three days, and the Domina’s nerves have suffered terribly for it. 

This young slave has been sent to the market for final supplies.  The household leaves for the villa of Domina Sabina’s sister near Rome in the morning, and much talk has been made of this sudden change in setting.  But Carina fears that tomorrow will be too late. In the midst of dread, her mother’s voice sprouts from the recesses of memory to scatter seeds of certainty. 

Each night before bed, Carina’s mother combed out her hair as the two of them laughed about their day.  And if Carina waited, her mother’s voice would rise and fall in the cadences of a bedtime story, usually featuring gods and men, heroes and beasts.  Other nights, Carina’s mother would lull her to sleep with tales of the great island far to the south, of its rocks and springs and its ancient peoples.  For all of her family was from a place the Romans called Sicilia. 

“There is,” her mother had sometimes whispered, “a great mountain. Bigger even than Vesuvius...” And little Carina had been horrified,  _ (mesmerized) _ by the word-woven tapestry of a mountain blown all to pieces with liquid fire rolling down its slopes.

“Mama, could it happen again?”

Carina’s mother, with her quiet smile and her loving hands, had only ever said, “Perhaps, my love.”

Yes, Carina knows what is happening, just as she knows that the Domina’s house, its people as well, will not see the sun rise tomorrow morning.  

The mountain blows out a great slab of stone, perhaps the size of the statue from the villa’s main courtyard.  Her eyes widen and she turns to join the throngs of panicked Pompeians who push towards the road out of the city.   _ A sea _ , she thinks detachedly,  _ a sea of desperation, or else a river of it. _

Someone steps on the trailing end of her  _ stela _ , and she is nearly thrown beneath the crowd’s pounding feet, but for a strong hand which takes hold of her elbow and pulls her aside into a doorway. It doesn’t let go, and she is brought face to face with its owner.  Dark eyes, a strong jaw, a gladiator’s nose…  _ Does she know him? _

She starts when she realizes that his lips are moving. 

“--lright?”

“Do I know you?”  _ I think I do. _

“No.” 

Hesitantly, now, amidst the shrieks from the street and the rumbling of Vesuvius.

“ _ Have  _ I known you?”

His brow creases thoughtfully.  

“I think… perhaps.  And, gods willing, we may know each other again someday.” He casts a stormy glance at the mountain through the haze and the panic, but doesn’t speak.  

As he gazes out through the snowfall of ash, she studies him.  The thick, corded tendons that define themselves as he clenches his jaw; his hair where it spreads itself darkly and curls down over his forehead. His nose, his cheekbones, the broad frame of his shoulders. The blood running down the side of his neck from a cut somewhere near his temple.  All of him, she sees and wishes she could keep with her. But somehow she understands, she  _ knows _ that this is the only chance she will get.  _ (For this life, at least). _  So she studies him, this stranger with whom she shares something immeasurable as eternity itself.  

He looks back to her; his face is thrown briefly into shadow as the mountain in the distance spouts flame. Eyes the color of warm earth turn softly down to meet her gaze, and he moves a hand to the back of her neck 

“But not,” he whispers, in a voice as rough as gravel on her heart, “in this lifetime, I think.” 

He leans his forehead down to rest it against hers, and they close their eyes.   She understands.  Gods help her, she understands. 

“Until next time then.” she whispers to him.  And then she throws herself back into the mad crowd as it surges away from the mouth of hell.


	2. Rome, 1842

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I know I promised a few of you that I'd be posting soon; that was a week ago.  
> But I'm so excited to be posting chapter 2 of this! I put a lot of time, effort, planning, and research into this one, so I hope it's as special for you to read as it was for me to put together. Let me know what your thoughts are on this chapter by commenting and leaving kudos. Writers love feedback!  
> As always, enjoy.

All across Rome, the church bells chime nine o’clock.

_Only nine o’clock_ , thinks Francis absently. _With a long night ahead._

He and his two friends have been here in Rome for near on two weeks, courtesy of Curtis’s father; every night leading up to this one has been spent wandering the city and watching preparations for the festival. This is a triumph for Rome, all her hard work has lead up to this very evening.

_There is no backing out now._

Carnevale begins tonight. Where else would Frank be, if not with his brothers? Here, they are merely foreign celebrants, come to dance, drink, and to admire the women.  

_Leave the dancing  and admiring to our very own Casanova_ , he thinks, _and the drinking for the later hours._ Their very own Casanova is, of course, William Russo the second, better known to Curtis and to Frank himself as ‘Billy’, or ‘Bill’. Frank worries for him sometimes, and knows that Curtis does as well. But Bill is in his element at the moment, dancing and flirting to his heart’s content.

The only thing to worry Frank at his moment is his own unsettled thoughts.

And the only thing to worry Curtis Hoyle, it seems, is Frank.  

“ _\--Francis Castle_ \-- You haven’t been listening to anything I’ve said!”

“Yes, I have!” Francis turns to face Curt with what he hopes is enough indignance to be convincing.  

“Really. Then what’ve I just been saying?”

“Something ...about Bill?” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck and feeling the slightest twinge of guilt.

“Yes,” Curtis says, eyeing him suspiciously, “you’d think he’s danced with every girl here already. He certainly dances with them all back home.” His shoulders lower as he exhales in a puff of air. “What troubles you, Francis? You look more somber than usual.”

Frank is silent.

“Not the women, I hope. Or the setting?” Grinning, he adds, “me?”

And Frank is left spluttering apologies and reassurances to a laughter-stricken Curtis.

“Peace, brother; I was joking. But in all seriousness, is something the matter?”

Francis pauses a moment to think, tracing the engraved hilt of his sword where it rests against his hip. _Is_ something the matter? It cannot be that he is inebriated, for he’s _not_ ; he’s only had some watered-down wine as of yet. He mentally ticks the rest of Curtis’s items off on his fingers. The city, he loves: its Roman arches and bright colors; its grand churches and its drinking houses. _And as for the women,_ he muses, _they are beautiful. And yet..._

“Frank?”

He looks around calmly before quickly replying, “Nothing. Just a feeling.”

A thought comes to him suddenly, and before he knows it, a teasing smile has made its way into his voice. “Why? Does the famed _Dottore Curtis_ have any suggestions to cure my _malaise_ ?” He draws out the second half of _malaise_ for the undignified snort it will surely cause.

“No, my dear Francesco,” replies Curtis, “But _il mago_ Hoyle does.”

And then, in what what William likes to call a “Pomp and Circumstance Voice”, Curtis proclaims (in loud Italian, no less) that the Gods of Carnivale have spoken to him and told him that on these eight nights of the year 1842 ( _anno Domini)_ , Francis Castle must Cool his Arse and _enjoy himself._

_Il Mago_ himself laughs at his own cleverness and wanders off to find drinks, leaving Francis quite alone among other revelers.

_Finally,_ thinks Frank, letting out a long exhale. _I am blessedly unmolested._

But that’s not true, is it? With his companions gone, his returning thoughts take center stage.

The truth at the heart of Frank Castle’s ‘malaise’ (not that he will ever tell Curtis) isn’t that he dislikes the city, or the company, or the women. It is not even dislike. It is anticipation, and it has been rising all night; building up. Exactly what it is he’s anticipating, Frank doesn’t know.  

_Something is coming tonight,_ he thinks _._ He shivers, feeling as though someone has just run their finger down his spine. _Whatever it is, I’ve half a mind to tell it to hurry up._

He adjusts his sword belt and examines the people around him until he sees two familiar figures making their way toward where he stands. Curtis and William. He lifts a hand and waves to them with a smile. The conquering heroes return, then.

_Christ, Castle,_ he tells himself sternly. _Snap out of this; stop worrying your friends. They, at least, deserve to have a good time._ And with that, Frank resolves to enjoy himself as best he can.

Francis changes his count of the approaching party as it arrives; William has somehow managed to acquire and to keep with him three ( _three!_ ) female companions. Following carefully behind them is Curtis, a drink in each hand and a smile on his face. William introduces his new…friends...as Agnese, Giuseppina, and Vittoria; and each, as she is mentioned, bats her eyelashes at him from behind her sequined mask. Francis relieves Curtis of a cup and takes a long drink.

_Anticipation be damned, I will not end this night sober and brooding, as I end all others._

Time passes, and he has loosened somewhat up: enough, at least, to notice some women give him appreciative looks. (Some have given appreciative _touches_ as well, for, much to his companions’ amusement, his backside has been pinched by _at least_ three different women as they passed him by.)

His brow creases slightly as he sees one of the girls, Vittoria maybe, eye something directly over his shoulder and whisper quickly to Agnese. Bill, meanwhile, continues the story of the time he, Frank and Curtis had gotten lost in Paris. That particular escapade is somewhat clouded in Frank’s mind (and in Bill’s and Curtis’s), for all three had been, at the time, very, _very_ drunk, and had decided to stop and ask for directions in a brothel, of all places.

“--I said to Curtis, ‘Well, _I_ think you’re--’”

Curtis interrupts to protest this version of events--and the expression of mock-outrage stills on his face as he stares at something over Francis’s shoulder. The ladies giggle to each other.

“ _Signorina_ \--,” Bill starts to say, and is cut short by a hard swat from Curtis.

Francis stills. That unsettling feeling from before--almost as if someone is running their finger down his backbone--has returned. He forces himself to act as though everything is normal, takes a sip of his drink. And it happens again, the feeling, but this time _up_ his backbone. Quite suddenly he understands, and must repress the great urge to turn his head.

Because, judging by his friends’ faces as they light with amusement, and judging by the now-apparent warmth of a breath next to his ear, someone may very well be standing behind him.   _Actually running their finger down his spine_ . _Oh,_ he thinks, light-headed with relief.    

He wants so badly to turn around. Instead, he stands stone-still as whoever is behind him reaches their hands around and covers up the eyes of his mask. He closes his eyes, and his world goes dark.  

_Signorina, said Bill. A lady, then._ The signorina exhales gently against the nape of his neck; expecting her to speak, Francis is silent. She shifts, and he catches a faint whiff of dusky perfume. But she says nothing.

Bold, then, is this unknown woman. _The lady has made her move, then. She is waiting for me to make mine._

All is quiet save for her soft breath and his friends’ snickers. With his eyes covered, he takes a sip of wine, then holds out his cup until someone, Curtis he thinks, takes it from his hand.

“ _Signorina,_ ” he says smoothly, all too aware of the eyes trained on this scene. “If you wished to blind me, you had only to unmask yourself and smile in my general direction.”

His friends whisper to each other excitedly.

She speaks, and her voice, her words send him reeling.

“ _Signor_ , I do not think you know me.”

_Oh, but I do_.

He thinks before replying loudly enough that his companions may hear him.

“And _I_ think, _Signorina_ , that had I known you in any way, in any lifetime, I would wish to know you again.”

Someone snorts from among the group in front of them.

The lady behind him chuckles softly, almost as if Frank has made reference to a joke known only to the two of them. He thinks he might understand what it is, this great joke. He wants to say a thousand things, a thousand things like, _In any lifetime, I would remember you, and I do._ But somehow, he knows that this moment will soon be through. So he says nothing at all, and lets her speak.

_“_ Clever,” she murmurs just to him. Her hands lift from his face, but he keeps his eyes closed. Seconds later, she lifts his mask from his face and moves it to rest at the top of his head. A grin tugs slowly at the corner of his lips as an idea forms in his head. Some part of him hopes that she has unmasked as well.

_That would certainly make this part better._

Lightning-quick, his hand darts up to catch her wrist as she lowers it from his face; and lightning-quick, he spins them to face each other. He lays his arm around her waist and pulls her suddenly against him.  

_It_ is _you._

Her eyes are as blue as her dress, and a crown of white roses rests atop her golden head. _I think that I have seen her before. In waters, and in ash._ He wants to be her troubadour, to hold her close under the stars and shower her with softly spoken words of promise. _Lady, you could ask me to fall on my sword, and I would do so._ She is beautiful, and unattainable, and she is here in his arms. He huffs out a laugh and lets his gaze wander down to her lips, then back up to her eyes. She smells like fire, like wine and the coolest springwater.

(He doesn’t want to let her go. But he hears a clock chime midnight across the city, and he knows that he must.)  So he pulls away slightly, gazing into her eyes and mapping the smile on her face so he can come back to it when he feels lost.  

“I know you, _sconosciuto mio_ ,” she whispers, lacing their fingers together. “And I will know you again someday.” He smiles, for he knows these words, knows them from an eternity of years past. He knows them, and his lips form around their shape even as they exit her mouth in a smiling whisper.

“But not, I think, in this lifetime.”

He draws their entwined fingers up to his mouth and kisses her knuckles; she smiles beatifically at him.  

“So you understand, then?”

“Always,” he promises. With a smile, he murmurs, “I will be seeing you next time then, _signorina mia_ ,” and unlocks their fingers.

“Indeed,” she whispers in melodious reply. “Perhaps next time we will be alone. I would like that, I think.”  

They study each other for amoment more, preparing themselves for this parting of ways.

Until the next time.

“I have unmasked you,” says the _signorina_ in his arms, raising her volume for the benefit of their gawking spectators; those poor, confused souls who have seen them whispering and yet have heard nothing of their little exchange. _I wish them all to hear me, but I truly mean every word  of_   _this_. She rises on her toes to brush a stray curl away from his eyes, and continues at the same volume.  

“Smile for _me_ , _adone mio_ , and watch as the world is blinded.”

She plucks a blossom from her hair and tucks it behind his ear. And then, with a wink, she turns away and melts back into the crowd.   

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special shoutout to my special peeps! (you know who you are.) Thanks for reading!  
> Italian guide:   
> Dottore: Doctor  
> Il mago: the magician  
> sconosciuto: stranger  
> adone: a noun used to describe a True Specimen™ of a man. Derived from the word "adonis"


	3. Interlude

Hello, Hello, Hello, my wonderful readers!  It has been  _so_ heartening to see all of this great feedback.  Unfortunately, I find myself lacking a situation to put these two characters in.  

So, I am humbly asking for ...... prompts! 

Comment with a historical event or time period in which you would like to see Frank and Karen run into each other! 

Many thanks, 

N 


	4. Paris, 1944 (Part 1 of the Tehillim chapters)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all!  
> So, I just want to quickly thank EVERYONE who sent in prompts; you all helped yeet my writer's block out the window, and I am eternally grateful. 
> 
> A lot of planning went into this chapter, and a lot of emotion as well. (I don't normally cry when writing chapters, but...)  
> This is the first of my two planned World War II chapters!  
> This one is for bottledbliss, who gave me the WWII prompt. 
> 
> For everyone who doesn't understand all of the references, here is a guide/explanation for each one.  
> Mourner's Kaddish: The prayer said by mourners to reaffirm their continued faith in G-d.  
> Hashem: another name for G-d  
> Tate: the Yiddish word for "father", is very affectionate  
> Meydleh: the dimunitive Yiddish for "maiden"  
> That should be it. Let me know if I missed anything, or if there are any errors.  
> Enjoy!

_I wish we didn’t have to die on such a lovely day,_  thinks Karen as she counts doorways. _Th_ _at’s what I told him; that’s what I said to Emil just before he ruffled my hair in that way of his and got up to speak to us._

“My friends,” Emil, their leader, had said softly to the ragtag detachment of twenty three Resistance.

“The time will be here, soon. To stand, to defend.” His head had dipped momentarily as he breathed out for a moment. “To die now in defence of Paris as we did thousands of years ago in defense of Jerusalem.”

He’d spoken as a general before ordering a final charge into no-man’s land, or like a friend giving the grimmest of truths. _(_ her _friend, who loved her brother, Kevin, with his entire soul, and was loved by him so fiercely in return.)_

Emil’s voice had carried to each and every one of his fellow fighters from where he stood beside the barricade, built for when the Germans inevitably marched out to rid Paris of the Resistance once and for all.

_He led us in a Mourner’s Kaddish, and then he led us into battle,_ thinks Karen numbly. _For the last time._

 

She stumbles into a doorway and carefully checks the cloth wrapped around the joint of her shoulder. It was grey, once, but blood from the bullet wound has seeped through the makeshift bandage, turning it red. Sending up a short prayer for strength, Karen closes her top shirt over the injury and slowly keeps on her path down the Parisian alley.

G-d, but she is _tired_. Were it not for this task, she’d have settled by the barricade, would have laid down in the dust to bleed out amongst her people.

_How long will Death wait to take my soul?_ She shakes her head to clear her mind of such thoughts.

_No, no, you must live. A little while longer will Hashem grant me, for I have been given a Purpose._

(If she focuses hard enough on the cobblestones beneath her dragging feet, she can almost hold back the dark spots from her vision.) Her bandage has become loose against the wound, so she stops again momentarily to fix it. The air rushing past her clenched teeth hisses as she secures the strip of cloth, tying it off tighter than before.

_Good_ , she thinks. _Good._ She starts moving again, keeping mental count of the doors she passes. More blood trickles down Karen’s forehead from a cut near her eyebrow, and she wipes at it with an already blood-stained hand.

_I fail. I fail to keep the ones I love alive. Kev, Maman, Tate, Emil… The Nazis took them all. I fail to keep the blood from my hands. From my face._

 

Further down the alleyway, she thinks she sees the door she is looking for, the one described by Emil with his dying breaths. _A healer will be there, he said._ The whole group was supposed to come to this place; the safe-house of a friend Emil made in a different _maquis_ detachment.

_He was born to a French mother and an English father,_ Emil had whispered to her after the battle, between breaths made bloody, made rattling by the bullet wound in his stomach.

_Not of our people, but he is a good man. A man named Hoyle._

Her friend had shifted suddenly against the red remains of their barricade and raised, weakly, his hand to rest it atop her head: a blessing. 

_May you live to see our return to Jerusalem; may you see your children safely to the wedding canopy._

Emil had smiled through what must have been great pain, then dropped his hand back down to his side.

_Now send me off, Chava,_ he’d said.  _Skip to the very end of the Confession,_ meydleh _;_ _it takes too long to do the whole thing._

Together they'd recited the deathbed prayer for forgiveness, and then the _Shema._ Emil had breathed out the final word, _echad_ ; and then Karen was the last living soul among a sea of beloved corpses.

 

Which brings Karen to the here and now, trudging slowly down this filthy Parisian back-alley. 

_I am the final flower of my family vine, which grew for generations._ With each step, her heartbeat increases in her ears. _It stretched back to Jacob and his sons, and I am the last of it._

She stumbles on a loose rock and her legs give way, sending her loosely to the ground. The bullet wound screams in agony; she cradles it, nearly sobbing from the pain of its impact upon the cobblestones, and begins to weep.

_Chava, you have a purpose_ , she hears Emil say. But what was it, again? What is so special about the Hoyle man that she  _must_ find him? 

 

She turns exhaustedly over onto her good side to wrap the bandage even tighter around where the blood trickles slowly, and rolls onto her front. The cobblestones are warm beneath her cheek.

“ _Yisgadal v’yiskadash sh’mei rabah_...” She mumbles, absently, the first lines of the Mourner’s Kaddish, leaving the rest of the prayer unfinished as her mind wanders.  

_I have lost them. Maman, Tate... and Kev._

_Kev._ Her older brother, who stood tall as a young oak, who used to swing her up and parade her on his shoulders. Who loved Emil, who loved life, who loved Karen. She misses him. He died, just like the rest of them. 

Karen's eyes wander half-lazily from her prone position, and there it is. The twelfth doorway on the left side of the street. Not ten steps from where she lies. 

_Chava, be strong._

_If_   you _die_   _now_ , she tells herself,  _you die unblessed and alone: unfulfilled._ _But look to the door in front of you; there lies your Purpose. It was Emil’s will that you should reach it, and is Hashem’s will that you go inside. It is only_ your  _will that can take you there._

She lifts her eyes heavily to the doorway and gets unsteadily to her feet.

One foot moves forward; the other follows.. _Left, right, left, right…_ Karen walks until she’s sheltered by the alcoved doorway and pounds her good fist as hard as she can on the door’s banded wood.

Any relief she might have felt at reaching her destination is drowned out by the pain that spears through her entire body as her knees buckle. A small cry of pain escapes through clenched teeth. 

_How long, G-d, how long will Death wait for me? Why didn't it wait for the ones I loved?_

There is noise from within the building, but Karen barely registers it through the pain from her shoulder as she begins to pray.

_Oh, Lord, the bodies of Your servants have they given to be food to the birds of the sky,_ _the flesh of Your pious ones to the beasts of the earth._ _Their blood have they shed like water through the streets, a_ _nd there was none to bury them…_

She slaps her bloody palm once more on the oaken slab, leaving a handprint in red. The door opens suddenly, revealing the broad figure of a man, his face twisted mid-scowl as he looks straight out but sees no one.

Karen's hand falls across the threshold with a soft thumping, and the door-opener looks down to track the noise.

_"Their blood...,"_ she mumbles to herself.

The man sees her at his feet. Through delirium, Karen looks upon his face and breathes painfully.  

_Thank G-d,_ cries her soul, _thank G-d._

Her eyes slip closed; she is lifted through the air and cradled against a broad chest

“Curtis—,” he shouts, and steps back over the threshold.

_He speaks;_ Karen dimly notes.  _His voice sounds like crushed stone. I know him, I think._ _"Their blood have they spilled like water through the streets...,"_ she says brokenly in Yiddish _, _"_... _and_   _there was none to bury them."_   _

She goes limp in his arms as the door shuts behind her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to leave comments and kudos. (Writers Love Feedback!)  
> Thanks!  
> N


	5. Paris, 1944:  Tehillim part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dear readers! I am so humbled at the continued response to this story! This is the second and probably final part of the World War II chapter prompted to me by the wonderful bottledbliss.   
> Let me know if you think I should continue this one!   
> Many thanks to all my special peeps (You know who you are).  
> You can find me on tumblr now as booking--it , if you want to ask me any questions or give me any prompts!  
> As always,   
> Enjoy!

Karen’s been living these past four years in a set routine.

Rising in the morning.

Finding some food (if at all possible), reporting to Emil for duty assignments. Doing whatever it was she and Kevin were assigned to. Lunchtime. Teasing Kevin. Patrol. Free time. Briefings. Sleep. The monotony had been made bearable by her brother’s presence, his constant sense of humor. And then Kevin had died, and her days were filled with planning, with defense. With blueprints and barricades, Emil and loneliness.

But the schedule always remained the same.

So when she opens her eyes suddenly to find someone  _ unknown _ hovering over her, her first instinct is to swing her fists up as hard as she can, to defend.

Because  _ this _ , this isn’t right. So what can she do but fight it?

Except she  _ can’t  _ fight it, because she’s being held down.

_ They take my family, they take my friends, and now they take my very body? _

Foggily, she hears, “She’s coming to.”

_ No. NO. Need to get back to the others. Emil. Kevin. Kevin? _

Karen thrashes against unseen restraints like a mad person, and someone starts mumbling.

As though weighted down by lead, her limbs barely seem to move; but she is trying with all of her strength.

But what is there to get back to? What is there to fight for?

_ None to bury them… _

She fights harder.

“—what’s she saying?”

“I can’t understand her.  _ Mademoiselle _ , can you hear me?  _ Please  _ stop thrashing—”

_ Who are you _ , Karen wonders dimly even as she continues to kick out against the hands pinning her down.  _ Are you the one that Emil spoke of? _

_ Emil is dead… they’re all dead… _

A cry bubbles up from her throat, and she shuts her eyes tight against the flurry of movement surrounding her.

_ Out of the depths, I call to you, Lord… _

_ Where are you? Where  _ were  _ you? _

Prayers she learned at her mother’s knee wind their way through her brain and out from between her lips; her eyes are open but she sees none of what goes on around her. She is alone now, and the only constant is the beat of her heart and the turning of her head from side to side.

Meanwhile, the group of men attending to her attempt to calm her down.

The dark-skinned young man at her wounded side uses his free hand to wipe a drop of sweat from his brow; his other is occupied trying to stem the flow of blood from her left shoulder. 

“G-d _ damn _ , she’s strong—  _ Mademoiselle— _ ”

From Karen’s other side, a dark-haired man with angular features interjects loudly, “What’s she saying? She keeps switching between French and something else.”

“Quiet down, Russo,” quips another one, blondish and about their same age, as he takes a bite from an apple and walks through the door, “and you might just be able to hear her. I’m going out for supplies.”

"Fuck off, Lieberman," says Russo. "And be careful." The door to the outside closes with a bang.

Curtis frowns. He doesn’t know how much time he’ll be able to spend on this one. He’s waiting for a number of  _ maquis _ from a nearby barricade to arrive at any time; and Emil told him to expect something like fifteen. Maybe more. 

He has more than enough medical equipment for that number, but it still makes him nervous. 

He shakes himself. 

_ Maquis _ or no  _ maquis _ , Curtis has a patient to save.

She’s stopped thrashing ( _ finally _ ), but she keeps tossing her head and muttering in French laced through with something else.

“Billy, can you hear her?” Curtis takes advantage of the girl’s stillness to start probing her wound for the bullet.

“Yeah… something about … sandbags… and blood, maybe? Like I said, she keeps on changing languages and I can’t make out anything more--” 

She speaks clearly: something full of hard consonants that come straight from the throat, something woven through with soft “v”’s and sun-warmed vowels that tumble from her mouth like drops of amber.

Something beautiful. Something desperately lonely, interminably sad.

He meets Billy’s eyes across the girl’s form, opens his mouth to say,  _ what the hell—  _

“She’s reciting one of the  _ tehillim _ . Was when I brought her in, before she switched to the Kaddish.”

Frank’s voice carries through the small room.

"She's Jewish, then?" this time, from Billy. 

_ Oh. oh...no. One of Emil's then... _

Curtis thinks he’s beginning to understand who she might be, but before he can speak to her, she goes silent and starts thrashing again.  

That settles it, then. He needs to operate  _ now _ . If she won’t stay still, they’ll have to continue holding her down.

“Frank, come help me. We need to get this bullet out of her.”

Francesco steps forward.

 

The Mourner’s Kaddish: a prayer for the dead with which the mourners reaffirm their faith in the Almighty. 

Frank’s recited it too many times to still believe in its words; how many times can you reaffirm faith before you realize that you’ve lost it? 

But he’s said those words countless times, for friends taken suddenly by a Nazi bullet to the temple, or more slowly with a lead slug in the stomach, their fingers finally gone stiff clutching a cross. He’s said it for everyone, regardless of religion, because it’s all he knows to do after losing someone close.

Francesco Castiglione (Frank for short) is fairly sure that this girl in front of him has said it more than a few times.

He steps forward and gets the strangest feeling that he  _ knows her _ , has seen her in a dream somewhere. 

As relieved as he is to have found her, he wishes it didn’t have to be like  _ this _ .

Frank motions for Billy to step aside and kneels down to take her hand in his. 

The bones of her hand, ( _ normally so fine _ ), are almost birdlike in his grip.

She stills; her open eyes seem to focus on him and his breath hitches suddenly. 

 

_ Blue light, dancing at him from the eye holes of a sequined mask, ashes falling like snow to contrast with the gold of her hair. _

Frank’s been a lost man since the moment he found her. 

He gently squeezes her hand.

She smiles blearily at him. 

“ _ I thought that might be you _ ,” she says to him in Yiddish, and smiles. 

He kisses her knuckles and hold her hand to his heart. 

“ _ I’m here _ ,” he whispers, wiping a tear from her face with his thumb. “ _ I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere for a long, long time. _ ” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.   
> Comments? Kudos? Put them down below! (Writers Love Feedback)

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to leave some kudos and some comments! They mean a lot to me. Don't be shy, Writers Love Feedback!


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